


And the Mist Upon the Hill

by cubedcoffeecake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Azkaban, Canon Divergence - Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Dark, Dementors have been relocated, Depression, Fred Weasley Lives, Gen, Good Weasley Family, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, M/M, Non-Consensual, Paranoia, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-War, Self-Destruction, Self-Doubt, Self-Isolation, bc why not, but - Freeform, dark themes, they're not in here at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 23:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15695802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cubedcoffeecake/pseuds/cubedcoffeecake
Summary: ...Shadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,Is a symbol and a token--How it hangs upon the treesA mystery of mysteries!Looking to find somewhere that feels familiar to him in the post-war world, Harry requests to be the guard stationed at Azkaban. What he finds isn't what he wanted.





	1. And the Mist Upon the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for HP Drizzle Fest 2018.
> 
> Disclaimer: The title and first part of the story description are from part 5 of Edgar Allen Poe's 'Spirits of the Dead.' Kozmotis Pitchiner's story from William Joyce's 'Guardians of Childhood' book series inspired a lot of the storyline and characters.
> 
> All of the thanks in the UNIVERSE to my fantastic beta Gemma!!!! From last minute SPaG to helping me with my tags, title, and summary, she’s put up with all of my constant questioning of myself like a champ! <3 <3 <3 You can find her on Tumblr under potter-loves-malfoy.
> 
> This prompt really caught my attention and wouldn't leave me be until I wrote it. I don't know that this was anything like what you had in mind, prompter, but I hope you enjoy it!
> 
>  **Prompt:** The Dementors around Azkaban may have been reassigned after the end of the war, but the rains and storms have not.  
>  **Suggested Character(s)/Pairings:** One of the Lestrange brothers/anyone of Harry's gen.  
>  **Any optional extras:** Creepy, dark
> 
> Further warnings beyond those in the work's tags are in the notes at the end of the work.

A part of him ached, that there was no one sending him off.

* * *

_“No, really, we’re having a whole party now! Everyone’s here! There’s no point in assembling again at three in the morning tomorrow,” Harry argued. He loved Molly, but really, all of these plans were a bit much._

_He’d asked for this assignment. The moment he saw it he could feel it calling to him. For all that he had fought through to create this world, he didn’t fit in the post-war wizarding society. Harry felt uncomfortable with the excess everyone now seemed to have. The obvious happiness everywhere you looked. In less than a decade, witches and wizards had practically forgotten about the great Wizarding Wars, and were content to just laze about and enjoy the spoils it had brought them._

_Really, Harry was happy for them. This easy life was what they had all dreamed of while fighting Voldemort’s forces. It was just that… now… it didn’t suit him. He loved the Weasleys, his friends, his coworkers; but he didn’t love his life._

_Becoming the primary guard at Azkaban would give him a break. A sanctuary, of sorts, he hoped. The island was widely whispered about as the last outpost of the war, as it housed all of the Death Eaters and their sympathizers. No one else. Just war criminals. Newer prisons had been built, the Dementors had been sent far away, and the horrifying island was saved for those who’d been given a lifetime sentence. Harry figured it would remind him of times past; times he had belonged in._

_None of the Weasleys were pleased, least of all Ginny; they’d been expecting a proposal, not a long term assignment._

_“...Alright Harry.” Molly shook her head, expression firmly disappointed. Harry tried not to let it get to him too much. “Well, we’ll just have to have a grand time tonight, then!”_

* * *

The docks were eerily empty. The ferry he would be taking was the only ship within sight.

While rationally, Harry knew that it was wise not to keep any more people in this area than necessary, it was a little discouraging to know that most of the time, he’d be the only person on the entire island who wasn’t a murderer.

A small lady silently guided him aboard the ferry and sailed him off toward Azkaban. It was a half hour (or more, this time of the night the clock always seemed to warp a bit) before the once-imposing prison came into sight. A little less time went by before they’d docked on the island’s shore.

All around, the seas were smooth and clear but a heavy fog clogged the island, only thinning about the prison. Harry turned from eyeing the cloaked rocks in the distance to thank the lady but saw that she was already on the water, well off in the distance.

He tensed, something like suspicion setting off warning bells in his mind. Harry was certain he had not been watching the island long enough for her to leave.

Nothing else seemed to be the matter, though, so Harry cautiously began to follow the rugged footpath up to the prison. It had been thoroughly cleaned in anticipation of his arrival, and every possible safety measure had been installed. There was a floo on every level, clear paths anywhere he would need to go, and the doors were all as secure as the ones holding in the prisoners.

His new chambers were on the ground floor of the structure, as far from the damaged walls as possible. When he opened the door, the shadows seemed to move, fleeing back to corners. His heart skipped a beat and the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

“Hullo?” Harry called out softly, readying his wand as he entered.

There seemed to be nothing wrong. Nothing out of place. A crude bed, wardrobe, desk, a vanity of sorts. Tossing his cases onto the mattress, Harry studied every corner. Every nook and cranny. He cast about for any form of dark magic.

While his spells came back strangely fuzzy, there was definitely no trace of dark magic. This only served to make Harry more uneasy, and he decided to perform his first inspection of the prison before bothering to unpack.

Years of auror training and missions had more than prepared him to adequately search out something meaning him harm; but there was nothing. _Anywhere_ . The prisoners were quiet, but all accounted for. Hallways that should have been menacing were just _empty_ . Everything was _right_ , and that felt terribly wrong.

* * *

 Harry slept lightly, as always, but nothing occurred in the night to wake him. He had been in Azkaban for days now, and all was running smoothly still. The prisoners gave him no trouble, nothing snuck in from outside; his rounds were monotonous. The most excitement he had was the birds flying high above the island when he’d walk the prison’s perimeter.

Really, this was exactly what he’d wanted, Harry thought to himself as he settled down before the ground floor’s floo. Peace and quiet, a simple assignment, distance from the world. If it weren’t for the itchy feeling that something wasn’t right, everything would be lovely.

“Harry! Oi, look who it is everybody!” Ron exclaimed as Harry stuck his head into the floo.

A jumbled group of good mornings and hullos followed. There were a good dozen people scattered around what he could see of the Burrow.

“Good morning Ron, everyone,” Harry replied with a smile. He could feel his mood lifting a bit already. “What have I missed since yesterday?”

“We talked ‘Mione into playing some Quidditch with us!” Ron seemed very proud of himself. “She was awful, but she’ll get better, I’m sure!” Harry wasn’t sure it was wise to proclaim Hermione bad at something like that, but he hummed agreeably.

“Percy didn’t like it too much!” George’s voice yelled from somewhere Harry couldn’t see. “Hermione got him right in the face with the quaffle!”

“No one knows if she did it on purpose or not,” Fred’s disembodied voice added. “She’s letting us hang in suspense, not knowing if she’s got a spectacular arm or just very good luck.”

Laughing a bit, Harry replied, “I’ll be sure to ask her when I write next. She might tell _me_.” He grinned widely at the grimace that settled on Ron’s face. Best friend often ranked over boyfriend, and Harry milked it for all he could.

Molly and Arthur walked into Harry’s view then, and a new round of hullos began, before Harry was grilled a third time in as many days on whether or not he was eating enough, if his living conditions were still comfortable, and if there was anything muggle Arthur could request for him that might be of use on the island.

After a rousing recounting of the latest Cannons game from Ron and a short debate with Fred over the morality of selling minors pranks when they had evidence that the parents didn’t approve, Harry was ready to end the call and get ready for his early afternoon rounds. “You’ll have to have Bill and Fleur come over in the morning sometime. I’d love to talk to them,” Harry said.

“Of course, dear! I’m sure they’ll love to talk with you too,” Molly assured him.

“Alright. It’s been great to talk to you.”

“And you, of course! But one more thing, Harry—could you call in the evening tomorrow? Ginny will be home for dinner before going off for another game, she’d love to talk with you!” Harry inwardly grimaced. They… weren’t on the best of terms right now, and it was entirely his fault, but he really didn’t want to deal with it.

“Of course! I’m sure I can make that work.”

“Lovely, wonderful! We’ll look forward to it!”

“Yeah, me too. Goodbye guys.”

He pulled his head out of the fire after the chorus of goodbyes ended and cracked his neck as the flames died down. Harry was beginning to stretch his shoulders when he saw something move just to his right side. He spun around, wand leaping to his hand, just in time to see a vague figure disappear out his door.

Harry gave it chase through the first four floors before it disappeared without a trace—disappeared without a trace into the thick fog that was seeping through the crumbling patches of the damaged wall. Heart in his throat, Harry backed into an easily defensible position and cast at the fog, trying to discern who had cast it… but the results were negative. Void. It wasn’t spell fog. The fog from outside was really just sleeping in the wall, where it never had before.

Very uneasy, Harry cautiously returned to the ground floor and began his inspection. There was fog seeping everywhere, now that he looked; there was a faint mist around his feet in most corridors, thickening and growing to crawl up the walls and up to his knees near all of the damaged walls. The further up he traveled, the thicker the fog.

Eventually Harry came to the roof. He expected to see the fog thick and swarming around the entire building, but as soon as he started walking toward the edge the fog around his feet began to rapidly evaporate. The sun was shining brightly, and as he looked down across Azkaban’s edge, there wasn’t a puff of fog in sight. He could see the entire island clearly—a phenomenon Harry wasn’t aware ever occurred. The island supposedly stormed all year round.

More disconcerted than when he had turned around to see a figure, Harry finished his rounds, tracing all the way back to his rooms without finding a trace of any fog.

He sat down hard on the edge of his bed. Had he imagined it? He couldn’t have. There was no way.

This was very concerning. Any abnormality could lead to a problem, and a problem could undermine the security on the prisoners. Harry decided he’d fill out a report immediately and owl it to the head auror. Hopefully the Unspeakables would be able to make sense of this.


	2. Shadowy--Shadowy--Yet Unbroken

 

He had known speaking with Ginny

wouldn’t go well, but he

hadn’t expected it to _hurt_ this much.

 

* * *

 

_“You had no right to do this, Harry! You’ve spent years pretending to be a completely different person than you are! You’re not the person I expected to marry; you’re not even the person I considered a friend!”_

 

* * *

                                       

  Every time the lightning

                                             sliced through the sky

                                     Harry cringed. The thunder

                                          that followed shook him

                                         to his bones and left him

                                  slightly shaking as he traced

                                                    the familiar steps

                                                          of his rounds.

 

* * *

 

 _“_ _Auror Potter, there is no trace of dark magic. No trace of magical activity at all, except for yours and that innate to the island.” Harry opened his mouth to protest—again—but the Unspeakable held up his hand. “No one doubts you, Auror Potter. There’s no one whose skills we trust more for this position, but all I have to report to you is that the prison is secure.”_

 

* * *

                                                   

Every drop of rain

                                                               on his skin

                                             felt like a needlepoint.

 

* * *

 

 

 _“_ _I’ve known you since we were_ eleven _, mate! You’ve been my best friend my whole life—a part of my_ family _. All I need is for you to tell me that you’re okay. If you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, okay. If you’re going to hide stuff… o-okay. But mate, you_ have _to give me something.”_

 

* * *

                                     

 Harry was getting used to

                                 the constant darkness. It had

                                        been storming for weeks

                                            without end. Everyone

                              at the Ministry assured him that

                                                      this was normal.

                                      There was nothing wrong.

 

* * *

 

_“The legends of Azkaban all agree on one thing, Harry,” Hermione had written. “It’s always miserable weather there. That’s just the island’s climate. It’s not concerning at all. If you don’t want to deal with the constant storming you can contact the Ministry about changing you out of the prison rotations, but I know you’re committed to this.  
_ _"You could try ordering some robes with stronger water-repelling charms?”_

 

* * *

                                       

Some places were darker

                                               than others. His feet

                                         would feel heavier when

                                        he walked through them.

 

* * *

 

_“Good morning, Harry.” George’s grim face was floating in his floo. None of the Weasleys had firecalled him before now. It had always been the other way around._

_“We came to say hi because Mum is crying,” Fred greeted, appearing beside his twin. “She couldn’t quite make it this morning.”_

_“Now Harry…”_

_“You’ve always been our favorite little brother.”_

_“Very nice manners, pretty face.”_

_“But Harry—you hurting Mum and Dad?”_

_“It’s no better than Percy hurting Mum and Dad.”_

_“And Percy never scorned a decade of Ron’s friendship…._

_“...and stomped on our little sister’s heart.”_

_“You man up, stop hiding, and start trying to_ fix _this mess you call your life…”_

_“...or stop firecalling our family.”_

_They looked serious as the grave._

_“You’re willingly living in the darkest place in our world.”_

_“You fucking_ fled _there for_ sanctuary _.”_

_“We don’t know what’s up with you, Harry…”_

_“...but if you aren’t planning to share…” George trailed off, their meaning clear._

 

* * *

 

                                     

 Some days, the rain let up

                                 and left only fog. Those days,

                                       he would find it in himself

                                     to pull out a book and read

                                              during the afternoon.

                                          But only on those days.

                              When it rained, he could barely

                                         bring himself to pull on a

                                     fresh shirt. He’d fall asleep

                                 still wearing his muddy boots,

                             and forget to hang up his robes.

 

* * *

 

_Neville and Harry had kept in touch after the war. Neville always had a knack for brightening people’s days when they needed it. A humorous story about a new plant and a coworker awaited Harry in some letters. In others, Neville would send an update of an old school friend who was doing well. It was always just what Harry needed._

_His most recent letter had rested unopened on Harry’s desk for a week before Harry finally tossed it out._

 

* * *

                                                   

 This was normal.

 

* * *

 

_“You’re not the person I expected to marry; you’re not even the person I considered a friend!”_

_“There’s no one whose skills we trust more for this position, but all I have to report to you is that the prison is secure.”_

_“But mate, you_ have _to say something.”_

_“You could try ordering some robes with stronger water-repelling charms?”_

_“...but if you aren’t planning to share…”_

_“I look forward to hearing from you, Harry!”_

_Harry didn’t reply._

_They waited. They gave him a moment, and then another._

_Harry didn’t reply._

_They shook their heads. They grimaced. They walked away._

 

* * *

 

               

             

          There was nothing wrong.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  


 

_Harry never replied._

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Eyes focused on the ground as he trudged back to his quarters, Harry didn’t notice the very-much-solid figure that followed just behind him.

 

* * *

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

                                                           A month was

                                           more than enough time

                                                for Azkaban’s magic

                                                                    to seep

                                             into even the greatest

                                                                    of men.


	3. Is a Symbol and a Token

It was October the 30th, and Harry had been stationed at Azkaban for three months.

“Good morning Avery,” Harry muttered to the first doorway along the fourth floor.

“Good morning Malfoy. Lestrange One. Lestrange Two. Black. Rosier. Mulciber. Rosier Jr.”

If the occupants of the cells could hear Harry, they gave no such indication.

Only one of the prison’s occupants was paying attention to Harry as he dragged his feet through the puddles in the halls. A man’s shadow followed beside Harry’s as he made his way back to his quarters, staring at his shoes and muttering under his breath.

He had been watching the Auror for months, now. Waiting, and watching as his sanity slipped. The fool had allowed himself to be isolated from his family, his friends, his coworkers. He’d played right into the magic of the island.

The shadow-man smiled. This Auror was a _lovely_ little lost soul.

 

 

* * *

  


_Ice formed at the_

_“shadow’s” feet as he_

_walked after Potter._

  


* * *

 

 

Months, he’d waited. _Harry Potter_. His eyes were bright (they’d be prettier glassy. Full of tears? Glazed with death?), his hair wonderfully framed his angelic face. Auror Potter barely reached his own shoulders when standing at full height—it would be a simple matter to overpower him, shove him against a door….

As Auror Potter sunk onto his bed, his lips stretched into a face-splitting grin. He could feel Azkaban’s magic beginning to condense—there would be a thick storm that night. All he would have to do was to lure the Auror into the midst of it; the thick misery there would pull all of Potter’s fears, his doubts, his _darkness_ to the surface to be played with.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Ice filled the cracks_

_he had hidden inside._

_Ice crept along_

_the door frames_

_he had peered through._

  


* * *

 

Everything that had survived as long as he had in this place loved to play this game.

There was nothing left of him _but_ his darkness. Humanity, weakness, sanity had all been drained from him until only this shade remained. In a decade, not even that would be left.

Today, however, he was still there. Today, he could hide behind doors and within cracks. Today, he watched and waited. Today, he was foaming at the mouth for the chance to strip down another into this shade he’d been left as.

The sun’s rays filtered through layers of clouds and smog to shine a green-ish, sickened light upon the island.

Azkaban’s shores were undisturbed as the sea around it stood unnaturally still, not a ripple in the grey waters for as far as the eye could see.

Mad, hoarse whispers of what should have been the wind could be heard coming from the shadows of the prisoner’s cells, if you stood still and listened closely enough. They carried out the walls and swept across the entire island, carrying the madness with them.

Rats and birds and insects heard the wind’s whispering and scattered to leave, to hide, to burrow into a safe place until the approaching storm had run its course.

Azkaban’s darkness was settling for the first time since Auror Potter had come to the island, and his attentive shadow would ensure he felt the full impact of the horrors it could bring.  


 

* * *

 

 

_As night spread_

_across Azkaban and_

_the moon rose_

_high in the sky,_

_the island’s magic_

_settled. The stifling_

_darkness spread. Ice_

_crawled over rocks_

_and bare trees,_

_a physical show_

_of the magic’s_

_effect upon all_

_it touched._

  


* * *

 

As darkness fell, Auror Potter began his evening rounds of the prison. He wore his standard dragon-hide boots; thick, heavily warded trousers; and his knee length crimson Auror robes, imbued with more protective spells than some manors. His wand was strapped to his right forearm, a flick of the wrist away if he had any need of it.

Years of strict training regimens had left Potter with strong broad shoulders and attractive muscles anywhere you looked. While his skin had been dark with tan when he had first come to Azkaban, the complete lack of exposure to sunlight had left him with a starkly pale skin tone. The veins in his hands stood out, drawing attention to every twitch of his fingers.

This was at least the thousandth time he had admired Auror Potter’s physical appearance since his arrival at Azkaban, but it seemed the sweetest. The anticipation was making him light-headed.

At last— _at last_ —Potter arrived on the roof of the prison. Just then, with unnaturally perfect timing, lightning struck at the far side of the island. The flash lit up the sky, the rock, the prison, _Harry_. Every plane of his face seemed accentuated; his skin, paler; his eyes sparkled with a color closer to the killing curse than he had ever seen them.

But as quickly as it had come, the moment was gone. The island was dark. Potter looked, in this lighting, to be as much a shadow as he was himself. For a heart-seizing moment he thought that the Auror would turn back and descend into the prison once more. That the island’s magic did not have its hooks entrenched deeply enough.  


 

* * *

 

 

_A scream tore_

_across the island._

_It sounded part_

_like a bird of prey;_

_part like a child;_

_and part like_

_something demonic_

_that had been_

_touched by light._

_Ice crept into_

_his heart_

_at the wretched sound._

  


* * *

 

Harry shot forward at the sound, running to the edge of the prison’s roof. Lightning struck again, into the sea just off shore, and in its light he could just make out a lightly-colored moving blur on the island below. His mind cried victory— _he wasn’t mad everything wasn’t alright there was something wrong therewassomething_ **_wrong_ ** —but his heart felt like a block of ice.

His feet rushed forward, taking him down the stairs to the main floor and rushing him out of the building entirely in pursuit of the being. His wand was in his hand before he had thought about it, raised in a position for quick defensive casting. His cheeks were lashed by the stinging wind whipping rain into him.

But he didn’t feel the rush of adrenaline. There was no heart-pounding anticipation as he chased danger. No alarm, no sharp fear spiking through him. No satisfaction, no anger, no _reaction_. Harry felt a numbing kind of unease, could feel a lump forming in his throat, but he could not feel what he should have. He felt more like a spectator to the upcoming fight than a participant. An absence of the fear that should’ve been there. A disorienting apathy.

The blur was faster than Harry. It led him on for half an hour, through great craggs and by towering cliffs as it led him from the prison and onto the beach. Stopping to catch his breath, Harry almost missed seeing the figure dash into his vision once more, before dodging shiplap and descending into what he didn’t know to be the heart of Azkaban.

This last leg of the chase was far more difficult than the rest had been. Twigs and stones ripped at his spelled trousers and smarted against his shins. The pounding of his feet was shooting pain up his ankles. His breath was coming hard, and burning like fire in his lungs. But Harry’s wand stayed firmly gripped in his hand, and he didn’t lose sight of the blur again—not once.  


 

* * *

 

 

_The interior of Azkaban_

_wasn’t quite a place._

_The island’s heart_

_was the concentration_

_of its magic,_

_and this hub_

_searched out its targets,_

_moving toward them_

_even as it lured them_

_to itself._

  


* * *

 

“Halt!” he called, but his voice was lost to the wind. When had the storm picked up? It seemed to be crashing into him from all sides. The rain fell harder, limiting his vision to inches in front of his face. He slipped and slid across the stones he was running over but kept his balance thank to years of practice. He was trained for this. ( _so why was it so hard right now to keep forcing breath in and out?_ ) Harry was closing in on the figure. Its image cut through the storm. He couldn’t have missed it.

The moment the figure stopped and faced him, the ground beneath Harry gave out and he fell, raising his arms to protect his face from the rocks and rubble that followed him down. His wand was knocked from his hand. His knees hit the ground with a resounding crack, and he felt pain rip through his magical core, realizing what had happened even before he looked down to see the splintered pieces of his wand, broken upon his landing.

Harry could’ve handled the pain tearing through his magic and body. He could’ve focused on the ground beneath him and shoved himself up to his feet. He could’ve concentrated on pulling his magic toward himself for a wandless defense.

But instead, his mind was caught on the young girl’s face that had been revealed when the figure turned toward him.


	4. How It Hangs Upon the Trees

“Hello?” Harry cried out, the word echoing throughout the cave he seemed to be in. A greyish, ghostly light flitted through the tunnel. The path of an ancient river now dry, probably. Azkaban was known for its constant storming--the clear skies he’d seen so much of had probably impacted the landscape.

Footsteps echoed through the air, coming from behind him. Harry shot to his feet (ignoring the  _ pain _ ) and spun around, catching sight of a figure just as it disappeared from sight around a surprisingly clean-cut corner. At first, he hoped it was the girl, that he could find her and help her, ghost or no… but this figure seemed more solid than the last and was definitely taller.

“Wait!” Malevolent or not, ghosts weren’t dangerous in the strictest sense, and Harry wanted answers more than he feared an angry temperament. The footsteps could still be heard, the sound of pattering seeming to be coming from all directions. Before he could lose track of the ghost’s movements, Harry took chase, leaving behind the useless pieces of his precious wand and the hole that would lead him to the surface.

He turned the first corner too late. The ghost was already out of view. It sounded to be close, though, so Harry kept running, running, running, around corner, corner, corner, corner, and the footsteps pattered, pattered, louder and louder and louder but the ghost wasn’t around this corner or that corner or that one.

Grey, stone walls began to smooth out the further Harry ran until there was no doubt that this place was unnatural. Every corner was a perfect right angle, every wall flat and unblemished, every wall and corner the  _ same the same the same _ Where was he? Was this truly an island? Was this underground? Harry looked up as he continued to drag himself through the corridors, but there was no ceiling above him, nor a sky, just a faintly glowing mist that could have been magic-imbued stone or could’ve been clouds.

Suddenly, he realized that the pattering had stopped. When had it stopped? How long ago had it begun? Had it been there at all? The silence made Harry’s every step, every breath, every shift of his robes unbearably loud. He tore at his Auror robes with both hands, letting them fall to the ground as he continued to run. Harry was almost certain he could hear Ginny sobbing, now. It was faint, but the sound was causing the same guilt to curl in Harry’s stomach as when he had last spoken to her. When was that? Why hadn’t he called back? Why hadn’t she called back? Why was it important? He needed to get  _ out _ . That was important.

Every wall was the same. He turned back, meant to go out the way he had come, but there was no way to know if he should go right or left. All of a sudden Harry came across a fork in the path. There hadn’t been a fork here before! ...Right? He spun around, backtracked again, but he found himself returning to this fork in the monotonous paths no matter which way he turned. Finally, he collapsed to his knees, the stinging pain in them at the movement reminding him of the ghost he had been chasing to begin this madness, to enter these endless tunnels… this maze…?

And then, there it was.

Harry’s head snapped up as he heard a chuckle emanate from before him. The ghost stood there, leaning against a wall of the right passage. Harry could have  _ sobbed _ at the sight--did he? were there tears running down his face? he felt so  _ cold _ , he couldn’t feel his face at all, would never know if there were tears or if there weren’t, was he supposed to know? should he be able to tell?--at the sight of another being. At the break of the stillness, the sameness. A different shade of grey.

It walked forward, its gait more a glide. It was most certainly a ghost, but when it stood right before him it stooped down and reached it hand out, holding it just below Harry’s chin as if to lift it up; it stared into his eyes for a moment, its hand never quite touching Harry, so he couldn’t tell if it would really go through him or not. It would, wouldn’t it? But how he longed to feel a kind touch right now… maybe if he wished enough, hoped enough….

The ghost stepped back, there an instant and gone the next. Harry lurched forward, a hand reaching out as he choked “No…” Desperation built quickly and this time, he didn’t hesitate a moment before scrambling after him.

Harry didn’t lose track of him this time. In less than a minute the identical hallways had shifted slightly in color and Harry could recognize the corridors as being on the second floor of the prison. Voices began to call warnings to him as he passed by the prisoners’ doors--no, just one voice. It sounded like Malfoy. Harry didn’t listen to it for a  _ moment-- _ the ghost descended the stairs to the ground floor and Harry chased him right past his own room.

As soon as Harry crossed the threshold of the prison, the ghost stopped, and Harry, too, stopped short so that he wouldn’t crash into ( _ through _ ) him.

He looked down at Harry, his growing smile inches away from Harry’s wide eyes, and whispered “ _ Harry Potter _ .” Harry could feel the ghost’s breath in his bones. The aching emptiness that had been building in him since coming here felt emphasized; the ghost was staring into it, seeing into it…

“Who are you?” Harry breathed. The ghost laughed. The sound made Harry feel smaller than the Dursleys ever had.

“I? Who am _ I _ ? Why, I am a ghost, of course! Who  _ was  _ I, do you mean?”

“Y-yes?”

“Oh,  _ Auror  _ Potter, I was of the greatest of men. One of the choice few that were going to rule the world! You beat us down once and we  _ came back again _ ! Azkaban could not stop us, we claimed! We believed ourselves invincible.” His eyes gleamed. “That nothing could destroy us.

“That  _ nothing _ could stop the greatest Dark Lord of history and his Inner Circle. His most trusted.

“ _ Me _ .”

The pieces slid together in Harry’s mind. This man was the ghost of an incarcerated Death Eater. Only one member of the Inner Circle had died at Azkaban by a means other than the Kiss. “ _ Rabastan Lestrange _ .”

His anger refused to come to his call, but Harry could go a long way on his sense of justice alone. He reached for his wand before remembering its fate and went to pull his arm back to hit the ghost instead, but Rabastan sailed backward of his own volition and floated back into the prison before Harry could move.

“Stop!” Harry cried, chasing after Rabastan a third time. The ghost led him on the same route as before, and again, as Harry passed the cells on level two he heard Malfoy call out to him.

“Potter! Stop! It’s a trap! This whole place is a fucking trap!  _ Don’t follow it _ \--”

He ran faster. They reentered the maze of corridors and Harry could hear Rabastan’s laughter echoing as his footsteps had… how long ago? An hour? A day?

The ghost appeared before him suddenly and Harry toppled back against a wall-- _ again _ \--and Rabastan taunted him-- _ again. _

“You must’ve been terribly lonely, eh little Auror?” He disappeared. Harry stepped forward but tripped over his own feet spinning around as he felt breath on the back of his neck. “You haven’t been much of a friend, have you? Of a  _ lover _ ?” Rabastan’s grin was alike to a shark’s.

“Taking and taking and taking. You want their time and their attention. You want them to talk to you, to show interest in you first. You want them to remember things about you, but you don’t return the courtesy. You want and you want and you want.”

“Shut up!”

“Always have, haven’t you? I wanted once, too.” The ghost disappeared--vanished into thin air.

“I wanted greatness, I wanted a lover, I wanted friends, I wanted riches, I wanted infamy. I wanted the Dark Lord to take note of me, I wanted to be untouchable.” The voice didn’t hold the longing it should. It didn’t hold the longing  _ Harry  _ felt, thinking about his friends.

“I didn’t get any of that, did I? And neither did you, hmm.”

“SHUT UP!”

He laughed, and the laugh sounded right, it sounded like it was coming from just to Harry’s right. He ran around the corner, trying to think straight between his aching body and muddled mind and the growing pain in his heart. He needed Rabastan to be quiet, to stop talking, to stop to stop to…

Rabastan disappeared again and left only silence. This time, as Harry raced through turn after turn, no one was there. There was  _ nothing  _ to break up the  _ sameness _ of each and every identical grey hallway.

Was he beneath Azkaban? Inside Azkaban? In caverns under the island, found by wizards ages ago and now forgotten about? Was he under the sea near Azkaban? Where were the exits? The exit? Surely he could find a way out eventually? Harry started to take every corner to the right, going the same way, everyone said this was a sure way out of any maze, but he had been walking long enough now that his knees were buckling with every step and his ankles had rolled half a dozen times and the pain boiling under his skin from the ghost’s words was all he could think about.


	5. A Mystery of Mysteries!

Harry thought of Vernon and Petunia, and Dudley. He thought of Hagrid, McGonagall, Snape, and Dumbledore. Hermione, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna. Sirius, Mum, Dad, Remus, Tonks, Moody, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Bill, Fleur, Charlie, the twins, everyone who’d fought by his side during the war.

What would they think of him? Did they think of him at all now? The war was over. Even as he went through Auror training and dealt with the Prophet dogging his every move, Harry hadn’t made any new friends. He’d let go of his “family” without even thinking that much of it. Can you really just avoid thinking about something as important to you as family? If he loved them, shouldn’t he have… _done_ something?

It was his belief that he didn’t belong anymore that had brought him here. Harry had thought that it was a sad truth, but all he had to do to be happy was to find somewhere more familiar to him. But he shouldn’t have been looking for somewhere _familiar_. He was familiar with darkness. Loneliness. Pain and heartache...

He should have been trying to move forward, and learn how to be happy. He’d watched the world rebuild itself and become beautiful and cheerful—Harry should have fought harder to move with it, instead of actively trying to move backward.

Swallowing thickly, Harry realized suddenly that he was lying on the floor. He must have collapsed at some point. Above him was the strange sky-ceiling. It appeared to be more green than grey now.

The thought was distant. All of his thoughts were distant. Harry could feel his every inhale and exhale, could feel a faint breeze ruffling his hair. Did… he need to stand up? He needed to leave, right? To find a floo, call the Weasleys. He’d apply for a transfer back to the Ministry… he’d start over…

“Oh, look at you, sweet little thing,” Rabastan cooed.

A hand settled on Harry’s shoulder, lightly massaging.

“You want to go _back_ , don’t you? Twenty hours down here is enough to make anyone realize they don’t like being alone. But you’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?” Something sluggishly stirred in Harry’s mind, and he nodded slightly. Yes, he did know, he… thought? “You can’t go back, not now. _No one_ comes back from here, lovely.”

 _No_ . But… but he _had_ to go back….

“Don’t you think I wanted to go back? To fix my mistakes, to live a decent life, be it at the price of my pride?” Rabastan’s voice was fixed at a low, lulling tone; as if he was telling Harry of beautiful lands far away, not of hopeless doom. “I wanted to go back to the mainland, find a young lad to settle down with, grow flowers in front of a small cottage, and grow old a happy man, no matter how humble that happiness made me.”

Rabastan’s lack of tone inflection should have alerted Harry to the fact that something wasn’t right, that he needed to be clawing at this man far too close to his person, but he was caught up in Rabastan’s soothing voice. “But you know what happened instead, though, don’t you?

“They sent me here. To Azkaban. It was supposed to be a life sentence. You certainly know that. Every Death Eater case made it into the news, didn’t they? But no, I didn’t live here long at all.

“Things are sent to Azkaban to _disappear_ , doll. To get lost, and never come back. _Nothing comes back._ No one. You’ve been here too long, little Auror. You’ve gotten lost. You can’t go back anymore.”

Harry whimpered, feeling confused when he should be able to understand. He shouldn’t be lost. He should get up and walk back to the floo and leave. But… he’d been trapped in this maze of the prison’s for a day, at least? Could he trust what Rabastan was saying? Could he trust his own senses?

“You know the way out, though? Didn’t you lead me out back into the prison? You can take me back,” Harry murmured. Rabastan raspily laughed, again.

“Let you go? Oh lovely, I have no power here! What do you think this is, this little piece of me right here?” Harry looked up and tried to focus on Rabastan’s form. His glasses were… gone? But he could see the blurry shape of the man. Rabastan had gotten very close. He was kneeling over Harry, one hand still on Harry’s shoulder, the other on the other side of Harry, bracing Rabastan so that he could hover over him very intimately.

Squirming away the little bit that he could, Harry tried to ask, “You’re--you’re a ghost?” but Rabastan stole his breath away before he could finish, a mockery of a kiss. Harry’s head spun and he felt a wave of hopelessness crash over him like he hadn’t felt since his last meeting with a dementor. He whimpered in protest, but it came out more as a whine, Rabastan lowering himself down to grind against Harry at just that moment.

Before Harry’s muddled head could react to him, Rabastan pinned both of Harry’s hands above his head with one hand and held Harry’s jaw in place with the other. He continued to plunder his mouth while grinding against the limp Auror. After a moment Harry started to struggle, but he couldn’t kick Rabastan off, nor pull his arms down to hit him.

The longer the… ghost?... molested him, the less motivation Harry had to keep fighting. After a few minutes Rabastan came across Harry’s robe-less chest and pushed off of him with yet another awful laugh.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since I first laid eyes on you, lovely,” Rabastan cooed into Harry’s ear. He sounded gleeful, more emphatic than he had in any of their interactions.

“Stop,” Harry begged. Breathing felt like a struggle, moving seemed impossible. He was trapped there, pinned by… whatever the island had made Rabastan into.

He understood now.

 

“ _It’s a trap!_ ”

 

The island had wanted him to come down here. It had wanted him to follow Rabastan. It had wanted him to believe he was safe. It had wanted him to doubt himself. It had wanted him to have no emotional foundation to hold him up. It had wanted him to be here, defenceless, feeling hopeless and empty and at the mercy of its magic.

 

_What had Rabastan become?_

 

 _What would_ he _become?_

 

“Oh, little Auror.” The voice was twisting--the shape of the man above Harry was changing. It was bleeding to a dark mist at the edges. Its eyes were glowing, the same pulsing light as the ceiling. This thing was not Rabastan Lestrange. It was not some remnant of him, some ghost or spirit or twisted fragment of soul.

This was a warped copy of Rabastan Lestrange embodying the island that wanted to kill him.

Harry concentrated. He focussed all of his strength, all of his conscious thought onto remembering the moments after the Battle of Hogwarts, the moments where victory sang through his veins and he felt positively invincible. He couldn’t lift his arm, didn’t have a wand to cast with, but he choked out “ _Expecto Patronum_ ” with all  the voice he had left.

Rabastan flew off of Harry _howling_ , vanishing before he could hit the wall of the corridor but not reappearing like he had before. Harry lay on the ground catching his breath for a moment, but as soon as he felt the high of casting a Patronus begin to ebb away, he lifted himself onto his elbows and forced himself to stand.

His right ankle was definitely broken, and something in his left foot was throbbing with pain as well. His knees were scraped bloody, his head was spinning and felt full of cotton. He felt like emptying the contents of his stomach onto the corridor floor, but Harry couldn’t tell right now if that was because of a concussion or because he’d just been… Rabastan had…

Harry heaved the contents of his stomach onto the corridor floor. It was probably the latter, AND a concussion.

His nose was running, tears were falling, his bare chest freezing, and everything hurt. But Harry had to keep moving. He had to get out of the maze of corridors before the island sent something else his way. The only company he had as he limped along was the sound of his blood spattering against the ground. He felt as though he may go mad before getting out of here--if he wasn’t _already_ mad, and if he did indeed get out.

Just as the high of casting magic faded completely and Harry felt as if he would surely fall to the floor again and be unable to get up, this time, he saw a light ahead of him. A light that was different from the sky in this place. A bright light. A white light.

Harry had once more reached the fork in the way. After a moment of consideration, he turned away from the path he knew led to the prison ( _he would have to thank Malfoy, someday_ ), and headed left instead.

Moments after entering the passage, it abruptly ended. The smooth walls gave way to natural rock, and laid out before Harry like a painting, was one of Azkaban’s beaches.

He just stood there a minute, watching the waves crash on the rocks.

Not long enough later, he exited the tunnel completely, dragging his legs forward until the rock became sand. The skies were dark with a thunderstorm, jagged lightning striking into the sea every few seconds. Their flashes were probably the light he had seen.

Harry fell to his knees and focussed on the wind stinging his chest.

Harry had made it out. He was out. He was out he was out _he was out_

And if he saw endless tunnels every time he shut his eyes, what of it? If he could feel a body pressing against his, hear a voice calling him _lovely_ whenever the wind quieted down… He was out. He’d go back up to the prison in a moment, and he’d call Ron, and he’d start making amends. He’d leave this island and never come back. _He was out_.

 

 

 

_The shadows watched him_

_kneeling on the beach._

 

_Once Azkaban had_

_sunk its claws_

_in you, you_

_never truly left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: rape. very non-con (that's in chapter 5). there's no strict self-harm, but when Harry isolates himself from his friends and gets depressed, he doesn't take good care of himself. he struggles with apathy and it's sort of implied that he stops eating regularly and sleeping regularly and is unable to find the energy to do anything. a glimpse of his break up with ginny is seen (at the beginning of chapter 2). harry is paranoid and everyone else convinces him to doubt himself, so you get some paranoia ABOUT the paranoia. rabastan stalks harry a bit. the ending is ambiguous, but ambiguous in a potentially non-hopeful way.
> 
> Thank you for reading! xxx


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